


paper faces on parade

by theMightyPen



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Banter, Costume Parties & Masquerades, F/M, Flirting, Gen, Mistaken Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 09:36:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16784362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theMightyPen/pseuds/theMightyPen
Summary: A masquerade proves to be an educational experience for Lothiriel and Eomer.





	paper faces on parade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [funkytoes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/funkytoes/gifts).



> Inspired by essenceofarda’s AMAZING [artwork](http://essenceofarda.tumblr.com/post/174949547509/for-the-sketch-request-eomerlothiriel)

* * *

Under normal circumstances, Lothiriel _loves_ masques. The colors, the dresses, the endless dancing and wine...

But these are not normal circumstances.

No, for today--tonight--she shall meet her betrothed for the first time.

Eomer, son of Eomund, newly crowned King of Rohan. Brother to Lady Eowyn, Slayer of the Witch-King. A warrior many times over, with valor only matched by King Elessar. A proud man, and a brave one.

And a stranger.

She still cannot fathom _why_ or _how_ such a man had agreed to marry her--her, a young, inexperienced, sheltered princess from a faraway land. She is not a Shieldmaiden, like his bold, brave sister. Nor a pretty, painted courtier like all of the noblewomen he must have met in Minas Tirith during the celebrations. She is only Lothiriel--too dark from many hours spent on the beach, too used to her own free will thanks to Ada’s indulgence, and more skilled with books and languages than horses and diplomacy.

“My lady?” Murmurs her long-time maid, Mithwen, pulling her from her thoughts. “Are you well?”

“As well as I can be,” she sighs.

Mithwen frowns, pausing from braiding Lothiriel’s hair to rest a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I have heard only good things about Eomer King. There is no reason to fret.”

No reason to fret! As if it does not matter that the course of the rest of her life has already been decided for her! Lothiriel has always expected an arranged match, but with someone at least known to her! Someone she could at least see herself liking! To think that she will spend years with this man she does not know, does not love, does not--

She takes a deep breath, stopping her maddash thoughts. It will do no good to get upset with Mithwen, who is only trying to soothe her. And Eowyn--who she has come to know and trust--has assured her that Eomer King is not so intimidating as his reputation makes him out to be.

“You are right,” she says, though she doesn’t truly mean it. “I am sorry to have distracted you. Please continue.”

Mithwen gives a gentle _hmph_ before returning to her task. Lothiriel smoothes her hands over the deep blue fabric of her gown to distract herself. It is truly beautiful, a gift from Aunt Ivriniel, with white lace at the high collar and edged around the cut-outs that leave her shoulders scandalously bare. It is not a gown she would have chosen for herself, but it matches her mask--a swan, with its tiny elegant neck sprouting from above her nose while its wings arch back over the sides of her face towards her ears--too well not to wear. Besides, said mask will keep most people from guessing her identity. Swans in any form are popular enough at Dol Amroth masques.

“There,” says Mithwen. “All finished.”

Lothiriel lifts her head and blinks in surprise at her reflection in the mirror. Her maid has managed to control her usually untamable mass of hair, twisting it into an elegant braid that wouldn’t be out of place on a Queen’s head.

 _Fitting_ , she thinks, _that I should already look the part of the role it has been decreed I must fill_.

“Thank you, Mithwen,” she says, hiding her sour mood behind politeness.

“And for the finishing touch--” At this, she secures the swan mask around Lothiriel’s face, tying it in place with the blue silk ribbon exactly the color of her dress. “What a vision you make, my lady!”

Lothiriel forces herself to smile, wishing for all the world that the opposite were true. That she might play the role of ugly duckling rather than radiant swan, and sink into the background where her famous betrothed would surely fail to notice her.

* * *

Eomer blinks down at the outfit Eowyn has chosen for him. Bema help him, but sometimes he could wring his sister’s neck! It is clear what he is supposed to be--no one could take the bright red mane on the mask for anything other than that of a lion--and clearer still that she is referencing the nickname apparently bestowed upon him by the ladies of Minas Tirith’s courts: the Lion of Rohan.

There is little he can do about it--there are few men of his height and build in either Rohan or Gondor whose outfits he could borrow, and to go without a costume to this blasted masque would be an extreme breach of Gondorian etiquette.

Which would not be so dire a thing, in Eomer’s book, were he not expected to meet the woman he is set to wed for the first time tonight.

It is a good match on paper, as his advisors have reminded him time and time again since he agreed to the betrothal. But paper matters very little when it comes to a true marriage, like the one his parents had, the one he has seen between many of his friends and their wives. If she is a shrew, or air-headed, or disparaging of his country and people, Eomer does not think he will be able to go through with it. No matter how large her dowry nor how much he values Imrahil’s friendship.

A knock at the door pulls announces Eothain’s presence. His captain is, appropriately, dressed as a fox, and gives a bark of laughter upon seeing Eomer’s mask.

“Oh, bless Eowyn for this,” he chuckles.

“Curse her, more like,” Eomer grumbles, begrudgingly fitting the mask to his face. “Everyone the hall over will know who I am. It completely defeats the purpose of the mask.”

“I can think of a few who might be thrown. Your wife-to-be, for example. She wasn’t in Minas Tirith until well after we’d returned to the Mark--your nickname might not be known to her.”

Eomer scowls at his friend--trust Eothain to see to the heart of the matter with such ease. His friend is unperturbed by his displeasure and reaches out to clap a hand to his shoulder.

“My, my, is Eomer King, the _Lion of Rohan_ and thief of maidens’ hearts both at home and abroad...nervous?”

Eomer shrugs his hand off, glad that the mask conceals the sudden redness of his face. “I am not _nervous._ ”

Which is, of course, a lie. He is _very_ nervous--damnably, ridiculously nervous--and it rankles. He has faced down Orcs without flinching, braved ruin and blood and gore countless times over, and yet the thought of meeting this--this _girl_ is enough to set his hands sweating.

“Hm,” says Eothain, in a tone that implies he knows Eomer is lying, “then I suppose it won’t matter that we are a good thirty minutes late, then.”

Eomer blanches.

They make the blessedly short walk to the palace ballroom, Eothain chuckling the entire time at Eomer’s quick pace. He spots Eowyn with ease, despite her white horse’s mask, and can only wince at the daggers she shoots him as he makes his way to her side.

“For Bema’s sake, Eomer, of all the nights to not arrive on time! Imrahil has been looking for you and Lothiriel--”

He cannot help but turn his head to look across the room, trying to pick out which costumed lady might be his bride-to-be. He spots Aragorn and Arwen, masked as an eagle and owl, leading the dancing, easily identified by their grace and happiness alone. He _thinks_ the stag dancing with one of the noblewoman--whose greying hair makes her too old to potentially be the princess--is Erchirion, while the white hare is likely Amrothos, given his proximity to the table housing the wine. The rest of the crowd is unfamiliar to him, the masks doing their job well.

“She is nervous as well,” says Faramir, as he appears seemingly from nowhere on his damned light Ranger’s feet, “my cousin.”

“I am not,” Eomer grits out, “ _nervous_.”

Faramir says nothing, but offers him a wry smile from behind his dark grey wolf’s mask. Ignoring him, Eomer turns his face back out towards the dancers. There is no small number of ladies to sort through. All dark-haired, all elegantly costumed as various birds and other animals. Some watch him back, hiding what little of their faces remains bared behind fans, while others smile invitingly at him.

“Well, which is she?” He asks.

“You would have known if you had arrived on time and spared poor Lothiriel the anxiety of having to enter the masque alone,” Eowyn answers, tone petulant. “And for that, I shall not tell you.”

Eomer gapes at her. “You cannot be serious.”

She is. Her squared shoulders and steely glare tell him so.

“Faramir?” He asks.

Faramir exchanges a look with Eowyn before shaking his head. “I am afraid I must bow to the wishes of my lady, Eomer.”

Eowyn grins smugly before putting her hand into her betrothed’s. “And for that, I shall reward you with a dance.”

And they walk off, leaving Eomer slack-jawed and Eothain guffawing into his hand.

Bema. What is he to do now?

* * *

The wall is refreshingly cool against her back. The room is hot, crowded with people, and Lothiriel’s heart has not stopped racing since she arrived. And she has not even met her betrothed yet!

Part of her is relieved that he is late, that they might meet without the watchful eyes of her brothers and father--and the more nosy gaze of the assembled nobles--on them. The other part is...well, strangely hurt that he did not arrive on time. What if he has somehow already seen her and decided he did not like her? Or heard some tale about her nature that has set him against the idea of marrying her?

The heavy tread of feet calls her back to the present. A Rohir--for there can be no doubt that that is what he is, with his long braid of golden hair and thick beard--has stopped at the table nearest her. He looks...frustrated, from what she can see of his face from beneath his magnificent lion’s mask.

Lothiriel cannot blame him--the ballroom is truly a touch overcrowded and she would not be surprised if his feet have been trounced upon multiple times in his quest to reach the less densely populated side.

“Are you well, my lord?” She finds herself asking, partially because she has been taught courtesy from birth, and partially because she hates to see anyone other than herself not enjoying the festivities.

He blinks, turning bright blue--Valar, she has never seen their like before!--eyes on her. “As well as can be expected,” he answers, voice deep and wonderfully flavored with his country’s accent. “And you, my lady?”

“The same,” she admits. “I cannot help but think our host may have overdone himself with the guest list.”

The man snorts, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I am not surprised. Imrahil is not one to exclude anyone.”

It is her turn to blink in surprise at her father’s name being used so casually. “You know him well?”

“We fought together in the War. That is as good a way of coming to know a man as any.”

Lothiriel shrugs, unable to keep her usual penchant for teasing from rising. “I would not know, my lord. Having never fought in a war myself, I cannot speak to its efficiency in establishing friendships.”

His smile blooms into a full--and handsome, Elbereth, very handsome--thing. “Oh? What would you suggest as an alternative for encouraging attachments?”

“Dancing,” she retorts, smiling herself when he laughs. “Though I will say, you two would make a very odd, if handsome, couple.”

He moves, coming to lean against the wall beside her. “And _I_ will say if you recommend dancing to encourage friendship, you have picked an odd place to stand.”

Lothiriel flushes a little, abruptly grateful for the cover the mask provides her. “Well, it is not the _only_ way to encourage friendship.”

“I see,” he says, and she cuts her eyes at him, recognizing the sound of teasing when she hears it, after years of experience of dealing with a similar tone from Erchirion and Amrothos, “do enlighten me.”

“Exchanging names is not a bad way to start,” Lothiriel says, though she regrets the words as soon as they leave her mouth. Oh, there is no telling who this man is! But she knows all of the men of the Riddermark to be fiercely loyal to both each other and their king. It would be an easy enough thing for this man--whoever he is--to tell Eomer King about their conversation.

The man hesitates for a moment before reaching over to gently take one of her hands in his. “I am called Leona, my lady.”

She almost scowls--she has been studying the language of the Mark since the betrothal was announced, and knows _very_ well that _leona_ means lion in that tongue--but pauses just long enough to consider that perhaps it is not so ill a thing that he does not give his true name? It is just a harmless flirtation, and it will be easier to pretend nothing happened if she cannot track him down later.

“And I am Alquiel,” she answers. It’s not entirely a lie, tonight--with her mask in place, she _could_ easily be called _swan girl_.

His smile is even more dazzling up close and Lothiriel gives a little gasp at the sudden press of his mouth to the back of her hand. “Well met, Lady Alquiel.”

“And you, my lord.”

He releases her hand, but makes no move to step backwards. “So, my lady, we have three ways that people might come to know each other. War, dancing, and exchanging names. Have you anymore ways to encourage affection?”

Lothiriel notes the change in phrasing with no small amount of pleasure. Oh, yes, she is to wed his King, someday down the road, but what harm is there in enjoying this man’s attention now? It is very likely he will never know it was her, anyways.

“I have heard sharing interests may help,” she says.

As it turns out, they have very little in common--he is fond of horses, as is the way of his people, and she is much more accustomed to a life centered around books and the sea--but it does not seem to matter. He is so earnest in his description of the rolling plains of Rohan, so open in his admiration for his countrymen and women, that it would be impossible not to like him.

 _You need to end this now_ , she thinks, while he has turned to grab them both fresh goblets of wine. _You are getting in over your head, swan girl_.

But then Leona has returned, smile and mask firmly in place, and she finds that she cannot.

“You truly do not like horses?” He asks.

Lothiriel smiles--she is not surprised that it is a sticking part with him, one of the Horselords. “It is not that I dislike them,” she explains, “only that I am very, very bad at riding them.”

“Perhaps you did not have a good enough teacher.”

Her face falls at that. Leona’s expression sobers nearly instantly. “My lady?”

“My,” oh, Valar help her, she does not want to _cry_ , not now, “my cousin was teaching me. Before the War escalated. But he--he had to leave, on a mission, and now…”

Boromir will never finish teaching her how to ride properly-- _”None of that sidesaddle nonsense, Loth, how will you ever outride those dratted brothers of yours?”_ \--nor so many other things that he should have done.

She gulps at the sudden sensation of his hand around hers. “I am sorry. I...I lost a dear cousin as well. The grief...it does get easier. With time.”

Lothiriel squeezes his fingers in gratitude. “I very much hope so, my lord.”

His eyes are soft, even behind the golden facade of his mask, and that is perhaps even more devastating than his smile.

“Well,” she says brightly, trying to return them to the earlier happy mood, “short of going to battle together, I do not see how we could become better friends!”

The smile is back, though still tinged with that damnably appealing softness. “Per your own recommendation, my lady, we must dance.”

“Oh,” Lothiriel breathes, heart suddenly in her throat. “I--I am not sure--”

But he is already leading her to the dancefloor, hand steady and gentle and warm around hers again, and she is helpless to stop him. The heat of his other hand coming to rest at her hip is a heady, intoxicating, _dangerous_ thing--they are no longer in their relative seclusion, but at the very center of attention--but she puts her own hand upon his shoulder anyways, and notes the strength she finds there with no small amount of appreciation.

“I hope you are better at dancing than riding horses,” he murmurs and Lothiriel cannot help but laugh, bright and true, as the music starts.

He is an _excellent_ partner, anticipating her moves with grace and lifting her with ease.

“I assure you, my lord,” she says, grinning widely up at him, “your toes are entirely safe.”

“It would not be so bad a thing if they were not to be. They have withstood worse than someone as lovely as you.”

She is grateful for the sudden turn in the dance that allows her to regain her composure, if only for a moment. Oh, Valar! Lothíriel isn’t sure _how_ she’s going to tell her father that she absolutely _cannot_ marry her recently betrothed, the King of Rohan--whom she _still_ has yet to meet--for she has fallen head over heels for the tall, mysterious, handsome soldier of the Riddermark with the lion’s mask!

* * *

Eomer catches a glimpse of Eothain glaring at him from across the ballroom, but the sound of Lady Alquiel’s laugher is more than an ample distraction. Bema, but she is beautiful, and kind, and _funny_. Surely his captain and friend would not begrudge him one last moment of freedom, of flirtation, before he meets the princess?

Besides, none of Imrahil’s sons--formidable warriors all, and as wise and wily as their sire--have stormed across the room to defend their sister’s honor, so he assumes he has not acted out of line.

At least not _yet_ . It seems a more and more likely thing when Lady Alquiel does not pull away from his less-than-proper hold, and the rush of _heat_ he feels when she smiles, slowly, up at him, a blush apparent beneath her mask.

“See?” She says, breathlessly, “your toes are quiet safe.”

That may be true, but Eomer is suddenly rather certain that his heart is not.

Abruptly, guilt hits him. What kind of betrothed is he, to dance so openly with a woman who is not the princess? And it is unfair to Lady Alquiel too--he cannot offer her anything. He is already promised to someone he has never met.

“Lord Leona?” She asks, apparently reading his sudden change in mood as accurately as he had read hers earlier. “Is everything alright?”

He swallows, steeling himself to tell her the truth, when he spots Eothain cutting a path through the mass of dancers, beelining for them. Bema, then the ruse will be well and truly ruined!

“Do you trust me?” Eomer asks.

Lady Alquiel blinks and he winces--trust him? She scarcely _knows_ him, and not even by his true name--

“Yes,” she says.

It floors him, the sincerity with which she says it, but he cannot stop to dwell on that now, with Eothain almost upon them. So he turns on his heel, keeping Lady Alquiel’s hand firmly in his, and beats a rapid retreat across the ballroom.

He nearly barrels into a smirking--smirking?--Aragorn, who deftly sidesteps to let them pass.

The balcony is exactly as he hoped: cool and deserted. Her hand is still in his, soft and warm, and he very much does not want to release it. But he must, if he is to have a clear head.

“My lord?” She murmurs. “Are you well?”

Groaning, he pinches the bridge of his nose. “I--no. No, my lady.”

Her eyes are dark and concerned. “I do not understand.”

“My lady,” Eomer says, “I--I have deceived you. It was not meant with malice, but I cannot keep the truth from you any longer. My conscience and my heart will not allow it. My name--it isn’t--”

A soft, small finger presses against his lips, stopping him.

“I know,” Lady Alquiel whispers. “It would be very ironic indeed if a man named _lion_ was dressed like one, after all.”

Oh, Bema. Eomer can feel heat--of a much less pleasant sort--creeping up his neck. She had known!

“I suppose it is my turn to be honest, then. For my name is not Alquiel.” Eomer blinks, stunned. She smiles, something self-depreciating in her expression. “I chose my name as you chose yours, my lord. Alquiel is Sindarin for _swan girl_.”

“I--what is your name, then?”

She looks away, twisting her hands nervously. “Would you begrudge me if I said I could not tell you?”

“No,” he admits. He had been no better, after all. “But I would say that I am sad that it is so.”

Alquiel--no, not Alquiel--offers him a small smile. “I am too. But my reasons are good, as I imagine yours are. Can we not--can we not be simply Leona and Alquiel, for the night? I would have us keep these memories happy, if we can.”

He takes her hands in his, again marvelling at their softness, their gentle strength. “As you wish, my lady. But if that is to be so, Lord Leona has a request of his Lady Alquiel.”

Her smile is more genuine now. “She will happily grant it, if she can.”

Eomer swallows, stepping closer to settle his hands on her waist. She doesn’t flinch, but instead tips her face up to meet his. “Will you tell me where kisses rank, in terms of encouraging affection?”

“Oh,” she breathes, and he does not care that he shudders like a green youth at the sensation of her breath on his skin. “Very highly. Perhaps the most important.”

“Good,” he says, and kisses her. Their masks are hindrances, but he dare not suggest they remove them--if he does not know her whole face, it will make dismissing this night easier--and groans when she stretches up on her tiptoes to press herself closer to him.

She makes a similar noise, hands coming to rest on either side of his neck, and Eomer allows himself one moment more of weakness, to nip at her full bottom lip and drink in the surprised sound she makes.

They pull apart and he takes a step back. He must, for otherwise, he does not know if he could bear to let her go.

“Thank you for my education on how to encourage friendship,” he says, his voice sounding ragged to his own years.

“I--it was happily given,” she says, visibly trembling in the moonlight.

Bema help him. He does not want to leave her, does not want to pretend he has never met this wonderful, beautiful, kind lady--

“I--my lady--”

“We should go back,” she interrupts. “Before you tell me your name, or I tell you mine.”

The weight of his responsibilities, his duties, his betrothal, comes crashing back down onto his shoulders. She is right. To do anything else would be to court madness.

Still, he offers her his arm. She threads hers through it and together they make their way back into the crowded, warm ballroom.

He lifts her hand to his mouth for one, final kiss when a familiar voice says, “Ah, there you are!”

Eomer’s heart plummets all the way down to his boots, for even in his bear’s mask, there is no mistaking Imrahil of Dol Amroth. The Prince is smiling and steps up to meet them as if his soon-to-be son-in-law isn’t completely and obviously smitten with the young woman beside him.

“I have been looking everywhere for you,” says Imrahil, “but I am glad to see you two have found each other first!”

Eomer blinks and looks down at Lady Not-Alquiel, who looks equally confused.

“Ada, I do not understand--”

Eomer’s heart stops and just as quickly tumbles into a beat fast enough to rival the Mark’s greatest eored. For _Ada_ means father in Sindarin, and there is only one woman in Middle Earth who would refer to Imrahil by such a title.

“My lady,” he interrupts, squeezing her hand, “I do not think I told you my name.”

Her look of alarm is evident even beneath the mask. “We had agreed that it was not necessary--”

He reaches back with his free hand and unties his mask. There are audible gasps throughout the room when his face is revealed, but he cannot bring himself to care, not when her mouth drops open in a round ‘o’ of surprise.

“My name,” he says again, “is Eomer.”

Imrahil’s amused smile is visible at the corner of his vision, but his focus is entirely on the woman before him. She releases his hand and for a minute he is afraid she might slap him, but instead, she reaches behind her own head to untie her own mask.

She is smiling, wide enough to hurt, when it falls away. “And mine,” she says, with happy tears in her eyes, “is Lothiriel.”

* * *

(“Well, that went better than expected,” Elphir quips, watching Lothiriel and Eomer gaze, starry-eyed, into each other’s faces.

“Thank Bema for that,” replies Eothain. “I thought I was about to have to witness him agonize over ‘honor’ for the next six months until the wedding.”

“At least some of us have faith in Eomer,” says Eowyn, loftily.

“I did not know ‘faith’ was synonymous with ‘having richer pockets’--” Faramir starts to say before receiving a sharp elbow to the side.

“Regardless,” Aragorn adds, “I think we can deem this masque a success, _bessig_.”

Arwen Undomiel smiles. “Yes. I think we can.”)

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> If you can say the title in your head without immediately adding MASQUERADE after it, I applaud you.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed this--it was a DELIGHT to write. Fingers crossed it lived up to its amazing source material.


End file.
